Reaching The Present
by too-much-like-Luna
Summary: Arthur/Merlin. A man's on a strange journey, obeying a voice only he can hear that only says one word, "Merlin" and watching the past unfold around him. Uses one traditional Arthurian theme. Reincarnation fic... sort of.


Reaching the Present

Everywhere he goes, his name follows, implanting its sound in his surroundings, teasing curtains, leaves and the hair on the back of his neck with its breath.

"Merlin, Merlin, Merlin."

He runs from it, but can not escape it. The ground he walks on trembles with the force of it, blades of grass whisper it gently ("Merlin... Merlin... Merlin,") in a longing, sad, breath. It comes to a point where he no longer knows whether he's running from the voice, or following its directions.

He does not know the names of the places he stumbles through, exhausted and pained but determined. More and more often he is oblivious to everything but the voice, contained in the fluttering leaves of trees.

"Merlin Merlin Merlin" they say quickly, forcing his tired and bleeding feet to go faster.

And the memories, sometimes those are there too. He does not know how he has them, how he has memories of a time not his own, memories of Kings and magic, fear and arrogance. Sometimes when he walks, the voice now carried by the wind, ("Mer...lin. Mer...lin. Mer...lin") he sees not the drab countryside beside him. Instead he sees fierce and bloody battles, the normal kind as well as magical ones, watches quiet camping spots along what is now a highway shared by a man and his servant, witnesses small moments of intimacy between the same man and servant, stumbles through the stone of castle walls, walks alongside insubstantial phantoms of people all but forgotten, and he _remembers. _

Through it all the voice continues, pushing him forward ("Merlin... Merlin, Merlin") saying _Don't you know you don't have any time to waste? _and _It's happening, it's the future, keep going. _Soon it adds another meaning to its repetition of the name, when he does not know whether he lives or dies, breathes or sobs, sleeps or wakes, nothing except the motion of his legs obeying the voice only he can hear. _So close,_ it seems to croon. _So long, yet no time at all. So __**close. **__Keep going. Merlin Merlin Merlin!_

He passes lakes where he witnesses death, survival, and loyalty. He uses trails he walks with other beings, horses, beasts, men in armour, a servant with gaunt cheekbones, druids trying to survive, and sometimes he passes through them. He sees castles, sees men fall, and hears shouts of terror. He sees a society grow and prosper, and sees it crumble, torn apart at the seams. He walks through towns, and sees old forests instead. He sees a boy in a cloak of green grown to manhood, sees a beautiful woman with black hair, and they do not answer when he talk to them.

Only the voice can hear him, only the completely invisible thing amidst a sea of phantoms can talk through the years.

"_Mer_lin, _Mer_lin, _Mer_lin," it cries.

He climbs hills, passes through valleys and through it all the voice whispers his name, but softer now, like a warm caress, as though it knows it is close.

And then he climbs the tallest hill, right to the top, and the voice grows in urgency "_Merlin_, MERLIN, _MERLIN_" until he sees a great elm tree, and then it stops completely. In its place is left a silence such as he has never felt before, a great crevasse with no chance of being filled.

Except, he _knows _now. He understands. The voice had imparted its full meaning at last with its death.

So when he reaches out and touches the tree, he focuses on the good memories he has witnessed and remembered throughout his journey, little snippets of time only he and the sentient being in the tree has a chance of remembering.

He leans back, away from the tree, and removes his hand. The tree groans, limbs and roots creaking, as though waking from a long rest. It shakes, groans again, a long sound of complaint and loss, and then a man steps from it.

"Arthur," the man from the tree says in obvious relief and joy. "You made it. You look exactly the same."

This time it is he who speaks the name, not the voice. "Merlin. _Mer_lin. _Merlin."_

And though both their voices are hoarse, barely audible, and painful to listen to from disuse, their name coming from the other's mouth is the most beautiful sound either of them has ever heard.

Close by, though the two reunited lovers do not hear it, an old, powerful magic fades away with a sigh, leaving its charges with the present to face.

The End.

**Author's Notes: These one-shots are going to kill me. No, like honestly. I was up till six a.m. the other day with the line "Everywhere he went the voice followed." And "The grass whispered it gently 'Merlin, Merlin, Merlin'" stuck in my head. **


End file.
